


Nightmare Come True

by BabyCharmander



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29697702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyCharmander/pseuds/BabyCharmander
Summary: Seizing his moment only took seconds to execute, and left scars that lasted for a lifetime and beyond.
Kudos: 22





	Nightmare Come True

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya folks! Got an Ernesto-centric fic for you this time. I suffer from a lot of nightmares, myself, so... uh... the characters I write do, too.
> 
> Thanks to Jaywings and Pengychan for beta-reading! Enjoy!

The first night, he doesn't dream at all, for his waking state has become dreamlike.

There's an eerie, almost peaceful stillness all around him, the quietness of the city and the hotel and the room. The sole exception is the distant whistle of the train, but he's been hearing it for hours now, though the train has long since moved on.

In fact, reality itself feels like it has moved on, leaving him in an untouched bubble locked in time. He sits on his bed, holding the book in his hands, but it doesn't feel real--if he were to open it again, he feels like it would just contain the useless garble of dream writing, so he does not. Though its color reminds him of something that he will not let himself remember. He sets it aside.

He feels he should sleep, not because he is tired, but because it is what he would normally be doing at this time, and he's starting to feel a faint desperation on the edges of his consciousness--a desperation to come back, to wake up. Quickly he washes it down with a gulp of tequila, and lays down.

Yet he cannot sleep. How can one sleep on a bed that is not real, in a room that is not real, in a reality that does not exist?

But he must. He must sleep, for they have a tour to continue in the morning.

So he closes his eyes, slowly letting the numbness of sleep take him... until he is brutally pulled from it, his heart thudding against his ribs, his eyes staring wide and blank at the ceiling above him.

No.

_He_ has a tour to continue.

Just him.

Just _him_.

Sleep fails to reach him that night.

* * *

The first time he does sleep after it happens, it is after a day of pacing, of gnawing on his knuckles, of biting back screams, of copious drinking.

Initially his sleep is empty and dreamless, and he welcomes it openly.

But as the night creeps over the city, he awakens to moonlight blanketing his bed. At first he is annoyed, and merely rolls over with a grunt.

_"I'm not doing this anymore!"_

Immediately he sits bolt upright, looking for the source of the voice, but there is nothing, and he remembers _why_ there is nothing. He scrambles for a bottle, but a memory flashes through his mind of a dash of _something_ being put into a glass, and for a terrified moment he wonders if some of it could have splashed into the bottle. It makes no sense as to _how_ that could have happened--he was careful as could be--and yet the thought won't leave his mind. He tosses the bottle on the ground, where it hits with a dull _clunk,_ some of its contents spilling on the floor.

Still he remains awake, curled upon a bed that may as well be soft as stone, for how little it comforts him. He must sleep though--he is exhausted, he did not sleep last night, he must sleep, he must move on, _he's already seized his moment, he cannot waste it..._

The darkness shifts erratically between shadows and the void of unconsciousness, and between those moments there are voices, scents, feelings.

_"Ugh, what town is this again...?"_

It's heavier than he had thought, and numbly he realizes the meaning of the term 'dead weight.'

_"Ah, don't act so jealous. That'll be us one day, right?"_

There's something sticky and acrid coating his shoulder, and he tries his best to ignore it.

_"I wish I didn't have to miss her birthday..."_

_Don't be seen, don't be seen, don't be seen._

_"Oh, the crowd really loved you tonight,_ hermano _!"_

Unfamiliar buildings rise around him, and every turn feels like it will make his heart either stop or explode.

_"You said this was the_ last _one!"_

It'll be over soon. It has to be.

_"A toast! To another step on our journey!"_

Nothing feels real other than the ground beneath his feet, and even that feels like it could suddenly cave in beneath him.

_"I'm sorry... It was the little girl there--she reminded me of..."_

The night is a hell of endless streets and what feels like an increasingly heavy weight in his arms and heart.

_"I can't wait to see them again!"_

He awakens to finding his pillow damp, and spends the morning screaming into it.

* * *

_"Where to today, then?"_

The suitcase is snapped shut, and he's staring down at him expectantly.

Something about this unnerves him, though he's not sure why, and merely shrugs, throwing a few more things into his own suitcase. _"Oh, the next train stop should do. I've heard it's a nice city."_

_"They all seem the same to me,"_ he replies, rolling his shoulders. _"Oh, do you think we'll see a pretty dress there? I wanted to send something back home since I won't be there for..."_

_"Bah, better save your money. You send them enough as it is,_ hermano _. You need to think about your_ future _!"_ He snaps his own suitcase shut, and hoists it off the bed, his guitar case on his back. Together they step out of the room, having their breakfast at a nearby _fonda_ before heading to the train station.

The whistle sounds overly-loud for reasons he can't place, and he can't recall handing anyone a ticket, but they board the train regardless. Together they sit, talking fondly of the successful shows they've had, of the sights they've seen, of what they'll do when they finally reach stardom.

He's looking out the window when he hears the voice, hesitant and sorrowful:

_"By the way... I'm sorry,_ amigo _, for that fight last night._ _I should have listened to you."_

_"Oh, it's all..."_

He pauses, his blood going cold.

And at once he blinks awake, finding his head resting against the train window. Quickly he turns to the side to find a stranger in the seat beside him, looking at him in concern.

"Are you all right, _señor_? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

* * *

One day he finds himself back home, at their front door. He hardly remembers the trip itself, but then, everything's been a blur. What he does remember, however, is why he's there.

His heart is fluttering in panic--singing in front of dozens never frightened him, yet the idea of speaking before _one_ person makes his stomach wrench. Before he can even compose himself, the door is open, and the woman is standing before him.

_"Where is he?"_

_"I... he..."_

His tongue is lame in his mouth, and he fumbles with his words. Coming up with a quick lie was never difficult before, and yet now it seems impossible. Suddenly he is overcome with the terror that if he should speak, he would tell the truth, and his risk, his cost, his _moment_ would all at once be for nothing.

_"¡Tío! Where is Papá?"_

The little girl tugs at his pant leg, and he has no answer.

Without a word he turns to leave, hurrying away from the house, but she is immediately following.

_"Where is he? Why isn't he with you?!"_

Panic overcomes him, and he tries to run.

_"¡Tío! Come back!"_

His legs grow heavier and heavier, as though he is treading through mud, and the two of them are right behind him, the woman's voice growing louder and more enraged all the while, and the girl's degenerating into hysterical sobs:

_"Where is he?! Where is my husband?"_

_"Where's papá?! I want him back!"_

He has to get away, but he can't run fast enough, and their voices are so loud, they seem to come from everywhere at once.

_"WHERE IS MY HUSBAND?!"_

_"¡¿POR QUÉ, TÍO?!"_

Why did he even do this in the first place? He never should have done this, for they will surely find out--

_**"WHY DID YOU KILL MY HUSBAND?!"** _

She grabs his shoulder, her nails piercing into him.

He awakens in bed, drenched in sweat, his face once again damp with tears.

And he vows to never tell them, never confront them, to pretend he never knew them. Never will he even return to Santa Cecilia--he will avoid it for the rest of his life.

He doesn't need that family anymore, anyway, he tells himself. He has a better one, after all.

* * *

The winter chill has gone, the weather is perfect, and he's playing to a cheering audience in an unfamiliar plaza.

_"¡Otra! ¡Otra! ¡Otra!"_ they call, and he obliges them, singing them his new song.

And then he sees it.

There's a man in the crowd. It's one he's never seen before, and one that would not typically stand out to him... except for the fact that he's not cheering. He's staring straight at him, the whites of his eyes visible even in the distance.

Eventually he realizes he is no longer singing, his hands hanging limp at his sides. The crowd has gone silent, only watching, while the strange man amongst them reaches out, pointing an accusing finger.

_"That is not your song."_

His heart jumps into his throat, and his legs threaten to buckle.

_"I saw what you did."_

He takes a step back, and the man steps forward.

_"You_ killed _him!"_

He takes another step back, and he falls, and the man is suddenly standing over him, along with a dozen other sets of eyes.

_"You poisoned him for his songs!_ You _did it! I know you did it! It was_ you _!"_

_"No, no,"_ he stammers, but the man's voice booms over his:

_"I know you did it! I_ know _you did it!_ I KNOW!"

The second he awakens, he scrambles out of bed, dresses himself, and leaves immediately. A few items are left behind in his haste, but not the book ( _not the book_ ), and he boards the first train he can find, immediately heading for his next destination. As he rides, he tucks the book into his coat pocket, and checks it several times during the journey.

They will not find it. They will _not_ find it.

They will never know.

* * *

He's talking with the agent, who is once again going on about _movies_ and _films._

" _...and they will_ love _it! I'm sure we can work in some of your own songs too, of course..._ "

He's only been half-listening, almost dazed with the idea that he will be in _moving pictures_. This is far beyond anything he's ever dreamed of, and he almost feels weightless.

_"And_ that _song! Oh, we_ must _include_ that _one."_

Nodding, he smiles at the man, only to pause. Someone else is in the room, which is very strange. He hadn't heard anyone else come in...

_"No,"_ he breathes upon seeing the hollow face staring down at him. _"Are you really...?!"_

The man nods.

Frantically he turns back to his agent and gestures behind him. _"Señor, I-I think someone has..."_

They both turn, but to his shock, nothing is there.

And everything moves on, shifting between one scene and another, one person and another, but the unnerved feeling remains even when he awakens.

* * *

A year or so later he's sitting at the table, the director and his co-stars laughing and drinking, celebrating the release of their film. He can't fully understand what they're all saying, but he doesn't care, basking in the euphoric joy of success, gazing around the room at all of the others who are experiencing a similar joy.

Until his eyes fall upon someone who was not invited to the party.

Someone who was not invited, for he should not _exist_.

_"You,"_ he says, rising from his seat and keeping his eyes on him. _"What are you doing here?"_

_"Who are you talking to?"_

He turns back to his table, to find it inhabited by different people. Glancing over his shoulder, he finds the apparition gone. None of this is right, but it doesn't feel entirely wrong either, so he moves on... until he finds himself awakening next to one of his co-stars.

If that's how it would be, then so be it. He would remember next time.

* * *

It is during a performance that he sees him again, standing just to the side of the curtain, and this time he knows. The stage, the dancers, the audience--none of it is real. He sets aside his guitar and marches offstage, keeping his eyes locked upon him.

This is a dream, he knows. Yet another nightmare. Though _he_ is standing before him, he knows that he is not alive, but instead a corpse left in a ditch somewhere on the outskirts of Mexico City.

The face before him is not that of a beloved friend, of a brother, but of a specter that is insistent on haunting his dreams. And while it is here, he may as well speak his mind.

_"This is_ your _doing_ ," he states, jabbing a finger into the ghost's chest. _"You haunt me for something that you brought upon yourself."_

The ghost only stares at him. Though it appears alive, its hair is the same color, not with the streaks of silver that his own has attained.

He gestures back at the now-empty stage and the darkened theater. _"This--_ all _of this--could have been yours, if you'd only_ listened _. We could have shared this together."_

Though the specter is still silent, its expression has changed, its eyes glaring, its lips pulled back with the rage of a wild animal.

Yet he finds himself grinning victoriously. _"Be as angry as you want,_ old friend. _The most you can do is taunt me. You can never hurt me, or abandon me, or hold me back._ Never _again_."

As though to challenge him, the ghost suddenly lunges forward with a snarl, knocking him to the floor.

He awakens tangled in his own bed sheets, struggling with them on the floor. A woman scrambles to the edge of the bed, looking down at him in alarm... but for once, he has not woken in fear, or anger, or anguish.

Instead, he has woken in _laughter_.

There will be no more nightmares haunting him, no more ghosts lurking at the edge of his dreams, awake or asleep.

* * *

Or so he thinks.

It is a few years later that he is suddenly and violently freed from the mortal coil. At first he fears he has been plunged into another nightmare, but... no. This is no nightmare--not even a "living" one. In fact, in the afterlife he is living his _dreams_ , holding concerts, starring in films, holding parties in a mansion larger than the one he'd had in life.

Of course there is one _slight_ problem, he discovers shortly after death, but it is easily taken care of with a few words and a few payments. After that, he never has to think about it again.

Never again, until one night, many many years later, when a very strange thing happens.

A boy, a living one, appears in the afterlife, looking for _him_.

“I’m Miguel, your g-great great grandson.”

Not something he'd considered, but a likely result of some of his... actions in the living world. But even so, could this really be true? How could a living child enter the Land of the dead? Surely this must be another one of his strange dreams… and so he rolls with it, reveling in the joy (and brief elevated stardom) that comes with having a living great-great grandson in the Land of the Dead, enjoying the presence of a descendant with as much talent as he.

Until something changes.

The night is nearing its end when a new figure enters the dream. A figure that stands at the edge of the room, draped in shadows, and yet... familiar. It cannot be, though--he dealt with this years ago.

“We had a deal, _chamaco_!”

But soon the figure steps forward, revealing itself as a dusty skeleton with a drooping frame and torn clothing and an old, old photo of himself... and that's when he remembers. He knows this man.

Of course. Of course he was not done haunting his nightmares, but he knows how he can deal with this.

Yet… he’s never seen _that photo_ in his dreams.

He snatches it away, looking it over--he _remembers_ this, but why is it showing up in his dreams now? He hadn’t thought of this specter in so long…

As he continues to stare at the photo, he hears the child draw attention to the movies being played, and the ghost watches one in particular.

“...That night, _Ernesto_ …”

And he looks up from the photo, a terrible chill filling him.

As the skeleton recounts the story of what happened so many nights ago, that night that he’d tried everything, _everything_ to bury, to justify, to forget, he realizes...

Yes, the ghost has finished haunting his dreams.

Because he is about to make his afterlife a living nightmare.


End file.
